[PHOTO/CAPTION: Terri Uttermohlen]

[PHOTO/CAPTION: Terri Uttermohlen]

Braille Monitor

April 2004

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Diving

by

Terri Uttermohlen

Terri

Uttermohlen

From the Editor: This

charming story will make you yearn for Caribbean islands and tropical breezes.

It appeared in To Reach for the Stars, the twenty-fifth in the Kernel

Book series of paperbacks we publish to educate the public about blindness.

It begins with President Maurer's introduction:

When Terri Uttermohlen

considered the possibility of fulfilling her long-held dream of diving in the

sea, her blindness was not what she feared. What she worried about was whether

she would find an instructor willing to work with her. Here is the delightful

story of her adventure:

Jacques Cousteau, the French

oceanographer and inventor of the Aqua-Lung, has always been a hero of mine.

When I was a kid, I used to dive vicariously by watching him on television.

The fish and other sea life brought to me by his camera fascinated me.

I

also admired the younger French divers as they fell backwards into the sea--clad

in wetsuits, masks, fins, and tanks. It seemed like magic to me to be able to

enter another world so close, and yet so different, from the one inhabited by

those of us dependent on air for our survival.

It

may not surprise you then to find that I wanted to try diving on a recent trip

to a small island in the Caribbean on my belated honeymoon. My husband Jim and

I planned the trip for months. Though we had both traveled out of the country

several times before, it would be our first trip alone together. Jim and I are

blind, a circumstance that led us to some unusual speculation about how we would

be received and what techniques we would use to maximize the freedom and pleasure

we would have on our trip.

After

much Internet research, planning, shopping, and contemplation, we still had

many questions as we took off from the Madison, Wisconsin, airport. Would our

inadequate French be enough to help us get around? Should we carry our canes

in the water the first time we went in? Did we have enough money for all of

the shopping and fine dining we were hoping to do? Would dive shops freak out

at the idea of a blind person wanting to dive in the sea?

We

had been on the island for two days when I ran into Sebastian, a small man from

Paris who ran the activities desk at our hotel. "Is there any way I can

help you with water sports?" he asked us after pointing out a bench for

us to rest on while waiting for our tour guide.

"I

would like to scuba dive," I said boldly, anticipating an argument.

Instead

he responded, surprised but willing, "I can help you arrange that."

Reassured

that this dream might be realized, I told him that I would call the dive shop

later to set something up.

On

Tuesday I stood nervously in front of the activities desk wearing a sarong,

my swimsuit, a hat, and enough sunscreen to grease a car. My transportation

to the dive shop arrived, and we were introduced. Mark, my instructor, drove

us across the island, over a steep, poorly graded road to the hotel that housed

the dive shop. We conversed a little on the way. His English was fairly good,

and he seemed only a little nervous about my blindness.

When

we arrived at the pool, Mark showed me the fins, mask, regulator, and tank.

He was a good instructor and explained step by step what he wanted me to do.

He held my hand and said I should squeeze his hand twice if I was having a problem

and once if I was okay. He taught me how to inflate my tank vest using a valve

to control buoyancy.

The

first time into the pool he had me simply place my face in the water and breathe

through the regulator. Since I made it around the pool a couple of times successfully

doing that, he guided me deeper and deeper until we touched the bottom of the

pool.

Finally

he asked me to sit on the bottom. My only challenge was, being well blessed

by Mother Nature and an abundance of fine Wisconsin cheese in my diet, I had

trouble swimming below the surface. Some weights solved that problem, and I

soon sat cross-legged on the bottom until Mark signaled me to rise. Lesson over,

Mark said that we could dive the next afternoon in the sea. I was pleased to

have passed the test and even more pleased that he had relaxed considerably

with me.

The

next afternoon I stood on the warm boards of the marina, trying to squeeze my

ample Midwestern flesh into a wetsuit. I succeeded in stuffing myself into my

new skin and handed Mark all of my land clothes for safekeeping. I reached for

my cane and discovered it had taken a walk with the curious eight-year-old son

of the dive shop owner while I was occupied with the wetsuit. It was quickly

retrieved. Finally equipped for my adventure, I clambered into the boat.

The

tropical sun beat upon me as I rested on the bench at the back of the boat.

I was the only American on board. As the dive boat moved into the harbor, its

roundly inflated sides pulsing with the impact of the waves, I sat and listened

to the French-speaking voices around me. Was I really there? I felt as if I

had been transported into the Jacques Cousteau films I used to watch on TV.

I sat hoping that I would enter the water before the commercial break.

The

ride to the dive spot was brief. Mark and I waited on the boat while the other

divers and their instructor made their splashes into and under the waves. While

I waited my turn, I let the French conversation between Mark and the mother

of a particularly young diver pour over me like sun-warmed wine. I could understand

only a bit and instead focused my drowsy mind on imagining the scene around

me.

Eventually

the others returned, and I donned the fins, re-zipped the sausage wrapping,

put the mask on, and jumped off the side of the boat into the warm Caribbean.

Mark swam to me and helped me put on the tank and the weights.

Because

of the wetsuit, the weights had to be very tight on me before they would stay

where they were intended. The first attempt had them sliding almost immediately

to encircle my thighs. Since I had no aspiration to emulate the swimming style

of a mermaid, I suggested that we try again. After much giggling on my part,

we finally successfully put them around my waist.

Being

cautious, Mark repeated the exercise of the pool. First we swam around the boat

with my face in the water, making sure I was comfortable breathing through the

regulator. I reassured Mark several times by squeezing his hand once in response

to his questioning squeeze that I was okay. I was far better than okay, but

we hadn't worked out a signal for "wow!" Eventually we began to descend

in the water.

My

first impression of the dive was Mark's reassuring hand in mine, the bubble

of my breath rising from around my face, and the sun-warmed water surrounding

me. We slowly descended to the bottom. As we swam, I ran my hands along the

surface of the coarse sand of shell fragments. I hoped that Mark would warn

me if I were about to grab one of the Caribbean's less friendly residents.

As

we swam, Mark would tap my right arm when he wanted to guide my hand to show

me things. I touched rocks bearded with algae, a tiny closed clam, and a conch

shell that I believe still encased the conch. I saw sea plants that looked like

firmly planted garden weeds and beautiful slime-oozing strands of tall sponges

shaped like kielbasa. Mark placed my hands on coral, stubby sponges, and sea

fans. One type of sea fan made of fuzzy finger-wide tendrils seemed to pull

itself away from my touch. Another type had wide, rigid leaves that didn't move

at all.

I

was amazed when I touched coral. This variety was a hard globe with a pattern

of lines and swirls incised into the surface. After touching the coral, my arm

began to burn. I pointed to it, but of course Mark was unable to explain at

the time that it was fire coral. Instead, he squeezed my hand to ask, "Are

you all right?" Since the burning was minor, I squeezed back reassurance,

and we swam on.

Finally

I noticed that my tank was emptying of air. My throat was dry from the regulator,

and I knew my time under the sea was almost over. Mark gave the signal, and

we arose. On the surface of the water Mark told me that he had been surprised

a moment before by a three-foot-long Great Barracuda. The fish barely noticed

us and swam peaceably around ten meters from us. Mark had forgotten that I wouldn't

see it and was momentarily afraid that I would panic. Had I sensed fear from

him, I might have been afraid, but my trust by then was absolute.

We

swam back the short distance to the boat. Mark removed my tank and handed it

and my weights to the other instructor. I handed up my goggles and asked if

I should remove the fins. Mark responded, "As you like."

Next

came the least graceful moment of the excursion. As I said earlier, I was stuffed

into the wetsuit. The boat was round, rubber, wet, and about four feet above

the water. There was no ladder or rope to hold onto. In my younger days it would

have been relatively easy to pull myself up onto the boat. These are not my

younger days, however, and years of heavy computer use have left my hands and

arms weak.

I

stretched my arms up to grasp the upper side of the boat. Helpful hands pulled

on me like a Thanksgiving wishbone. Mark pushed from below. I was laughing and

out of breath, so I could not explain that the men pulling on my arms were making

it impossible for me to help myself get into the boat. After much pulling, pushing,

squealing, and laughter on the part of the slim Europeans who surrounded me,

I was finally able to say, "Let me try." Thus I finally flopped aboard,

relieved and a little embarrassed.

As

we made the short bouncy trip back to the marina, Mark handed me a small, beautiful

snail shell. Of all of the shells I had examined when diving, this was the most

perfectly formed. He presented it to me as a keepsake. I inquired to make sure

that no one was occupying the shell. I didn't like the idea of evicting a small

creature from the water. Nor did I relish the possibility of that same creature

emerging into my hand to register its complaint at the rude treatment.

I

could not express my thanks to Mark for understanding and respecting my desire

to experience the sea. He said that he had really enjoyed the experience. After

we arrived at the dock, Mark helped me peel off the wetsuit. (Without his aid

I would have needed a shoehorn and about a quart of WD-40.) I threw my clothes

on over my swim gear, and we drove back to my hotel. When I returned, I found

Jim contentedly sunning himself on the beach.

The

rest of our honeymoon trip was wonderful--romantic and sun-filled. We arrived

home after an endless day of cancelled flights and plane malfunctions. As soon

as we arrived, we unpacked to ensure that everything had traveled safely. In

the bottom of one of the suitcases I found the perfectly formed, delicate, gray-and-white

shell. I marveled at the beauty of the shell and the fact that I had finally

lived that long-held dream of being under the sea.

Thank you, Jacques. Now

you are even more my hero.

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